


Worthy

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: D/s themes, F/M, Femdom, Friends to Lovers, Lyrium Withdrawal, Pegging, Qunari Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armant Adaar was a tamassran once and finds she needs to fall back on the things she once knew in order to help Commander Cullen recover from his past traumas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Let me be worthy in your sight_

_Cleanse me in your beauty_

_Bring me into your safety_

_Let me not fall from your grace_

-[Worthy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pmfq7A9sTeE:), Bluetech

* * *

 

The snow crunches underfoot as she leaves the warmth of her shared quarters, quiet with the tray and closing the door carefully as not to wake the others. Haven is silent save for the sound of birds and horses and fires that crackle low after a long night in the cold. The pot of tea is piping hot, a trail of steam leaves the neck as she takes the steps down to the front gate. Cullen is already awake, standing at the lake where two chairs sit in view of the ice and stillness.

He turns and stands when he hears her approach. “Good morning, Herald.”

The nickname no longer sounds or feels like a burr, but a reminder of how far she’s come, how the humans here in this place do not see her as an infidel, but a sign of hope. She smiles at him and holds up the tray by way of greeting.

“Something different this time,” she says, handing it off to him.

Her name is Armant. Once she was a tamassran, and now she is the Herald of Andraste. Anyone who knew the purpose of her life in Par Vollen would have readily called her a whore, but now they look to her as a conduit for divine retribution. She takes her seat and he does too, holds the tray between them while she pours dark amber liquid into two mugs. It smells spicy, full of cinnamon and cloves and ginger. They each take a cup and drink, and when Cullen remarks on how strong it is, she suggests next time he try it with milk and sugar. He chuffs at the suggestion.

She likes his company, and even when he bristles, he does not judge her.

“Tell me about Kinloch Hold,” she says. “I hear it’s a tower of magi in the middle of a lake?”

He gulps his tea and she can sense his hesitance to talk about it. “I’ve talked your ear off for weeks about myself. It’s starting to feel unfair that I know so little of you.”

“Then ask me whatever you like,” she says.

“Iron Bull calls you,” he rubs his chin in attempts to recall the word correctly. “What is it...Tama? What does it mean?”

She breathes into her cup. “It’s short for tamassran. It’s...what qunari children call their caretakers. You might translate it as mummy, or something to that effect.” She glances at him and sees his confusion.

“Forgive me, but the Iron Bull calls you...mummy?”

Her laughter takes the edge off of the moment. “Tamassrans serve many purposes in the Qun, Cullen. They serve as caretakers, mentors, spies, and...sometimes they relieve tension. Sexually.” She watches him contemplate and gives him a suggestive look, turning her head. He begins to squirm when her gaze does not falter. “Is that embarrassing to you?”

“N-no,” he says, lying his teeth out. “Um. I hadn’t realized. Is it...is it disrespectful in any regard?”

She shakes her head and sips her tea, finds a focal point in the mountains to look at, because she doesn’t want to see Cullen’s reaction. She would rather remember the look of patience, the sincere expression that promised he would deal with the matter if Iron Bull had been pestering or insulting her under his nose.

“Iron Bull knows I was a tamassran, before. It’s meant in jest.”

He surprises her. “But is it disrespectful?”

“No. Thank you for your willingness to protect my honor, Commander.”

He relaxes into his chair. “It’s nothing. You and every woman in this Inquisition deserve nothing but respect.”

She hardly worries that anyone would or could disrespect her. The human males are literally forced to look up to her, and no warrior has yet been able to best her in a sparring match, save for Bull. It was only once, though, and very nearly a draw. He has years of extensive training and experience to which her relatively limited field work on Seheron barely holds a candle. People talk, but never loud enough for her to hear. But it’s sweet, knowing Cullen is ready to stand up to the Iron Bull and probably anyone else who dares to call her a hussy.

She sits on that revelation and they drink their tea until she goes to refill her cup. Cullen is faster, jumps to retrieve the teapot and pours for her.

“I...enjoy our friendship,” he says, unprompted. “I hope I never said anything to offend you, before I knew you better.”

Armant tries to recall. “I don’t think so.”

She can appreciate Cullen’s earnestness. He crosses his leg over his knee and she can’t help but look at his profile. He feels her eyes on him and fidgets with his tea, dipping his nose towards the warmth of his cup.

“Since we’re on the topic of my past occupation, I wanted to ask you something.”

He’s trying hard not to look uncomfortable, clears his throat and tenses his shoulders. “Go ahead.”

“I enjoy our friendship as well. It’s very valuable to me. I wondered if my being qunari would prevent that friendship from ever becoming more intimate.”

“M-more-” His hands shake and he nearly spills his tea in his lap. “You mean...something physical?”

“Does that go against your faith?” She frowns and searches him for some sign that she’s now gone and offended him instead. “Is sex something only shared between bonded pairs? I apologize, sometimes I forget that humans are very different from qunari when it comes to these things.”

“I...n-no, not necessarily but...Herald…” He rests his tea between cupped hands in his lap and stares deeply into it. “I’m flattered. You are,” he glances at her, and his ears are bright red, “stunning.”

She smiles and he realises what he’s said and he’s all red, painfully so. It creeps up his neck and face like water from a swollen flood bank.

“I- I mean! What I mean is...” He sighs and drops his forehead into his hand. “To be honest with you, I haven’t given...that...any thought. Not in a long time. In the Order there was only duty to think of, and lyrium...it eats away at you. I’m afraid there’s little of me left behind.”

“Lyrium has taken something from you?”

“More than you can imagine,” he says.

Armant faces the lake and resumes her tea, which has gone cold. She drinks it anyway. “I’m sorry to have upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me. It’s...just that...I’m not sure I could. N-not because you’re qunari, but because…I haven’t...been able to...to...” He gestures vaguely at his groin and then sighs and lamely looks aside. “Nothing. At all. Do you...do you understand?”

Ah. Lyrium has left him dysfunctional. She’s no stranger to such things, and doesn’t want to mollycoddle him. She takes his cup and tosses out the cold tea into the snow where it melts into a curl of steam, then fills it up again.

“There are more ways to find solace in another person than simply indulging in the flesh. These mornings we share are more than enough. I am glad to continue as friends.” She lets the subject drop. “If you need me--”

“Rest easy, Herald. If I ever need to...how did you put it. Relieve tension? You’ll be the first to know.” He laughs at his own expense and it’s easy to see how ruffled the conversation has made him.

Armant is glad to hear it, but she doesn’t plan to hold him to his word.

His hand rests on the arm of his chair and he tries to resume his tea. She reaches and covers his fist with her hand, so much bigger than his, and he relaxes under her touch after just a flinch of hesitation. He holds her hand for a few moments and then the day is upon them. His lieutenant emerges from his tent in the barracks and Cullen nods at her as he rises to meet his responsibilities.

They do this customary ritual, welcoming the sunrise and listening to Haven as it rouses from its slumber, every day until the archdemon and the army of Venatori come to beat down the doors of the Chantry. There is a battle that crushes her fingers and softens her ribs, and a long trek through the snow, her horns like icy staves, hallucinating and begging for the heat and closeness of Seheron.

She wakes at a base camp, smelling the cooking fires, and Mother Giselle explains that they had to wake the Iron Bull when they found her stumbling in from the blizzard. He'd been the only one large enough to carry her into shelter. Cullen is seen standing out in the starlight nursing a strained muscle from trying to haul her like a sack of grain down the mountain, the stubborn man. In the morning she doesn't bring him tea because her things are lost in the fray, but offers to help crack his joints. She wraps her arms around his chest and lifts him up, and the groan of painful relief wakes the other advisors.

At Skyhold she sleeps in a real bed for the first time in over a week. They deem her fit to lead and she is no longer Herald but Inquisitor. Cullen is terse and unforgiving, turns his soldiers into mason apprentices and carpenters to get the hold into fighting shape. Josephine and Leliana are there but hardly present, writing letters to nobility and covertly intercepting them, respectively. Cassandra is a constant force of reason and forward momentum, ensuring Armant stays focused on the tasks at hand, but they both notice the tension in the Commander, how the losses at Haven have affected him more than anyone else. She catches him down in the courtyard at a makeshift desk, his center of operations, and a number of soldiers stand around him listening intently, crowded like urchins waiting for a handout.

After a while she's next in line and Cullen leans forward over the edge of the table, stretches his neck and let's out a grunt laden with many hours spent working and many more to go before it's all done. He doesn’t notice she’s there.

“We need to send out more men to survey the area,” he grumbles. “Lieutenant Shaw, take your best scouts and hunters. And be sure to take flares with you in case of an emergency.”

A woman in freshly buffed armor, still shining, knocks her knuckles into her breastplate in salute. She heads off with a crisp, “Yes ser!”

A runner arrives, a sallow-looking lad with a long face and buzzed hair beneath his cowl. “Commander! Soldiers have been assigned temporary quarters.”

Cullen hardly looks up. “Very good. I’ll need an update on the armory as well. If the forge is inoperable we’ll need to have the dwarves get us a list of what they’ll need to fix it.”

Armant nods in assent, though no one has asked her opinion. This is Cullen’s sphere and she’s pleased to see that he knows what to do. The messenger doesn’t run off like the others before him, and it draws her attention to where he’s lingering. He’s staring at her, and she returns his gaze, making him flinch. He starts to babble in defense of his gawking, but Cullen has unfortunately noticed the boy’s lack of initiative.

He looks up and the drag of his stare rasps like sandpaper over the boy’s petrified stance. “Now!”

She watches the lad scamper off. Couldn’t be more than seventeen, fresh off some ranch in the Hinterlands. She knows Cullen’s generally terse with the recruits but he’s been particularly short with everyone as of late. He’s been running himself ragged, it shows in the bags under his eyes and the hollow of his cheeks. He dismisses his assistant with muttered orders that Armant doesn’t care to overhear. The woman salutes at him, and then at Armant as she backs out, off to the next task.

"Tell me, Commander, do you ever rest?"

His shoulders hitch but the startle is short-lived. "Ah, Inquisitor." His relief and his warm smile is a reprieve from her own worries. "Is there something you need?"

"Just checking in. How are you doing?"

“I am fine. But I worry for all of us.” He looks up at the battlement walls. “We set up as best we could at Haven, but we could never prepare for an archdemon--or whatever it was. If Corypheus strikes again, we might not be able to withdraw from here, and I don’t want to. We were lucky as it is. We must be ready.”

He drops off and she gently guides him away from the topic of what might have been. “Haven is behind us. How are we doing now?”

He looms over his desk and there’s papers and maps and blueprints everywhere. “We should have everything on course within the week. We will not run from here, Inquisitor. We have lost enough as it is.”

She agrees, but tries to remember the good news for both of their sakes. “The reports show most of our people made it to Skyhold safely?”

“Yes. It could have been worse. Morale was low, but has improved since you’ve accepted the role of Inquisitor.”

“Inquisitor,” she says, rolling it about like a sweetie on her tongue. “Inquisitor Armant Adaar. It sounds musical to my ears, but it must sound odd to you.”

“Not at all,” he says.

She quirks a brow. “Is that the official response?” She has a feeling it’s the line Leliana or Josephine would put down on paper.

He laughs. “I suppose so. But it’s true.” His sword clinks on his belt and he props his hand on the hilt. He extends his arm out for her to loop her hand through, and they set off on a short walk down the courtyard to watch as the work crews stitch Skyhold into some semblance of a fortress. “We needed a leader and you had already proven yourself quite worthy.”

“Thank you, Cullen.”

Her eyes follow his scar as he grins, tucking one corner of his mouth and tilting his head up at her. “You are very welcome, Armant.”

“I am relieved that you made it out alive.” She slides her hand down the inside crook of his arm as they walk.

He is stiff but momentarily adjusts to the scene, a lady noble escorted by her chevalier. “As am I.”

“I was scared that you might be valiant and try to sacrifice yourself for the greater good.”

“Like you did? You could have--I thought--” He tucks her arm closer to his chestplate and stops their easy gait, catching her gaze. “I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.”

When they set off again, he then glares defiantly at those who let their eyes dwell on the sight of them walking together.

Armant lets him guide her around the muddy path down to the derelict stables. He pauses to give direction to a passing courier and at the end of a row of stalls she sees two pairs of feet shuffling around in the moldering hay. She raises her brows and perks her ears to pick up the faintest hint of bated breath, of clandestine kissing. There’s an aroma of sex, over the strong smell of fermenting hay and rotting wood, just strong enough for her sensitive nose to pick up on a juddering breeze. She has a mind to let Cullen find them just to hear his remonstration, but instead she moves away, lets the lovers steal a moment of bliss. There’s nothing familiar here, and the temptation to slip into sadness is ever-present. Best to make an anchor of the things you have available.

She guides him away from the stable. “Am I to believe,” she begins, “that you left no one behind in Kirkwall?”

He's obviously startled by the suddenness of her question “Hm? I made few friends while I was there, and my family is in Ferelden. Why do you ask?”

She shrugs. “It seems everyone has someone to write letters to. Not even one person caught your attention in all this time?”

“Not in Kirkwall,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Time passes and when spring comes they take to playing chess in the Chantry garden. He bests her time and again. Dorian tries to teach her how to cheat, which makes her a better opponent to the Tevinter and little else, able to see through his sleight of hand. Cullen is better at games of strategy, and the more she witnesses his mind at work, even in play, she finds a new level of appreciation for his council. Leliana is the approach taken at night, cloak and dagger, and Josephine is the secretive smile, wielding pen and paper, ancient writs that spin promises into strength, and Cullen moves men, moves bodies through force of premeditated planning. Armant knows she would be utterly lost without any of them.

It’s been two weeks since she left for the Fallow Mire, returning at midday with every missing scout and soldier, plus a few extra who begged to join them on the way back. After an hour soaking up the dry heat in front of her fireplace, she bathes and emerges from her quarters in a clean woolen dress and a fresh braid down her back. The rest of her companions are still resting and she leaves them be. She hasn’t had time for morning tea in ages, but she endeavors to make time for conversation, at least. She seeks him out in his office because he is too busy, or else too proper, to seek her in the corners where she finds respite between long missions away from Skyhold.

Armant steps out onto the bridge over the courtyard and checks the training yard where recruits have gathered to spar. He’s there lending his steady eye and his cadenced, barked orders. He helps the weak ones first, uses the stronger, more experienced, the cockier soldiers to batter them down, teach them to take a hit. And then, if they are smart, they begin to see the training for what it is. They learn to use the weight and force of gravity against opponents who will always be taller, bigger than they are. The “better” soldiers learn to fight against the “lesser” and all are ultimately useful, ultimately indispensable. They all benefit.

She lingers there to watch. Cullen rarely gives compliments, but she sees him drop a heavy hand in approval on the shoulder of the young man she’s often seen him scolding. He remembers his shield arm, now, and uses it the way he should. The Commander says a few words and smiles, gives the boy a rocking squeeze that makes him wobble on his feet. He looks like he might be sniffling, or else it’s sweat he wipes from his nose when Cullen claps him on the back and strides away. She laughs to herself at how Cullen flusters at any sign of emotion, how he ducks out of the crowd of recruits before someone takes him for a bleedingheart. What he said, she’ll never know, but she imagines it to be terribly kind, in his own way. His army has become an extended family, and he is the older brother and their father alike, a steward of their collective will to fight. He’s prepared them well, but there are foul things outside the walls of Skyhold. Things that no one can prepare them for.

Cullen comes up to his tower and Armant is there waiting for him. He is overheated from sparring, demonstrating with his longsword the proper way to defend an overhead attack, using himself as the attacker. He strips off his mantle and tosses it aside, scrubs his fingers through his damp hair, releasing it into a mess of short waves. She sits on the corner of his desk and he blushes immediately due to his ragged appearance.

“Inquisitor. It’s good to see you well.”

She’s found an apple perched on a plate to the side of his current mountainous stack of paperwork. It sits next to a picked-at slab of bread and a half-empty tankard of weak ale. Breakfast? Or last night’s dinner? She’s been slicing it while she waits, bites each slice from the flat of the little paring knife that fits perfectly in her boot. She glances up at him and continues to whittle the apple into even pieces as he continues to divest himself of his heavy armor.

“Commander. The Fallow Mire sends its wettest regards.” Her voice is smooth and guileless, worn like a stone at the bottom of a riverbed. A trained ear can hear the fondness in it. She regards his meal with a tilt of her head. “You aren’t eating your rations?”

“Perhaps I knew you’d need it more than I,” he says. He steps around his desk and drapes his robe and mantle over the back of his chair. He leans down and opens a drawer, which squeaks in protest, and from it he produces a small case. “I’m glad you’re here. I have been meaning to speak with you.”

“And I am willing to listen, as always.” She scoots around and looks to see how he’s put a little wooden box near her thigh on the desk. “What’s this?”

Inside, there’s a vial of lyrium and a syringe. She studies it as Cullen turns it around for her to inspect the contents. He tucks his hands behind his back, trying to hide the tremor she can easily see before even he notices it.

“As leader of the Inquisition, you ought to know that…” He clears his throat, tries again. “Armant, there’s something I must tell you.”

Armant sees a crude figure of Andraste engraved on the lid of the box, and plush red velvet lining the bottom. A Chantry artifact, something every templar is given when they complete their training. She’s seen them in the barracks, each customized to the preferences of its owner, but Cullen has done no such thing to his own lyrium case. It’s old and worn, serves a single purpose, has no ornamentation, not even a significant passage from the Chant of Light written on a scrap of paper tucked inside.

“Please speak freely, Cullen.” She sets the apple aside and folds the knife, folds her hands in her lap, gives him her full attention with a soft look of friendship rather than the stern gaze of authority.

“Thank you.” He takes a breath and blows it out. “As you know, lyrium grants templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. We have spoken of how lyrium has taken from me as much as it has given.”

He waits, swallows thickly and avoids meeting her eyes. She remains silent, letting him speak, but keenly looks at his face, sees how he breathes a bit heavy and sweats as though he’s still outdoors in the sunlight, as if the trudging up the stairs has completely winded him. He should have recovered by now. She’s seen him fight, she’s seen what he--what templars--are capable of, and she looks from his face down to the lyrium and back, already making a connection.

The Chantry provides templars with regular doses of lyrium, enforcing an addiction that powers their unique talents. But it saps the mind, makes the templars attentive to gentle manipulation, makes them crave the lyrium and the hand that feeds it to them. At first, she hated the thought of allowing the Inquisition to become the new handler to droves of men and women who’d become so reliant on something that will ultimately destroy them. But Cullen and Cassandra have put a fine point on the exact reasons why they must supply the templars with ongoing access to clean, controlled lyrium. Without it, they suffer. They go mad. Some die suddenly in the throes of painful convulsions. Others kill themselves.

Yes, she’s been explained the necessity of securing lyrium, and routinely approves for them to deal underhandedly with the Carta in order to do it. She does it with the understanding that there is no other option. She does it with the knowledge that without it, Cullen may die.

There is a scrupulous press of her brows as she advances to the conclusion she’s already surmised from his behavior, from his sick and shaking countenance.

“I need you to know that...” He wipes his face and his hand is shaking no matter how he tries to steady it. He stoops forward, bows his head. His voice quakes from the very core of himself to say it out loud; “I no longer take it.”

Blinking, she takes this in. She breathes evenly and does not say the first things that come to mind. She does not ask why, she does not succumb to fear and ask after his health. He is not feeling well, it’s clear enough to see, and she doesn’t see the point in underlining an already illuminated passage. He looks Void-taken and the longer she studies him the more it eats at her, makes her feel weak, like she’s failed him somehow.

“How long has it been?”

“It’s been months,” he admits. “Since Haven. After seeing the Red Templars, I decided I would no longer be leashed. I want nothing to do with my old life. After everything that’s happened…”

There’s a gap there that encompasses a decade of things he’s hesitated to tell her. The Ferelden Circle, Kirkwall, and now Haven. Antiquated lore and militant doctrine pitted mages and templars against one another, both yoked to the Chantry for fear of blood magic, demons, and corruption. Seeing people who’d once been his peers transformed into hulking beasts, mindless, agonized, it couldn’t have been easy. He saw armor he once wore occupied by twisted monsters with faces hardly human any longer, any of which that could have been his, hideously warped by red lyrium.

He solemnly tells her, “Whatever the suffering, I accept it.”

“You know the risks,” she says.

“I do. I will not put the Inquisition in jeopardy. I’ve asked Cassandra to watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved of duty.”

She reaches forward and sharply closes the lid of his lyrium case. “Thank you for telling me. I respect what you’re doing and I give you my full support.”

He seems relieved and finally takes his seat. “And I shall defer to Cassandra’s judgment, should mine falter.” It seems the matter is over.

Armant relents and cracks a smile at his last statement. “I fail to believe you could ever defer to someone else’s judgment without a fight.”

The tension seems to have eased, and when he chuckles Armant feels confident that she can step down from her pedestal as Inquisitor and resume slicing her apple, which has damped one of his reports. She offers him the next piece. He takes it and eats, though she can tell his appetite is very little.

“Are you in pain?”

“I can endure it.”

She rises up and tosses him the rest of the apple. She takes his case and places it high on a shelf. He can reach it, if he must, by climbing up on a pile of books, or on tip-toe balanced on the seat of his chair. Best to put temptation just out of reach. An added measure, she pushes it back so he can’t see it from the floor.

“I trust you,” she says, smiling sweetly down at him, “but if you ever think to reach for that case, I want you to ask me for help. Is that fair?”

Cullen nods. “It’s for the best. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Armant smooths down her dress and adjusts her sleeves. It’s not very true, of course. She hasn’t see him in a fortnight but she thinks of him often, like noticing her own pulse, the sound of her heartbeat in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got an anonymous request on tumblr that just said "Cullen/Adaar - fem dom/pegging" and this is my response. I'm using this as a chance to experiment with my writing style and I hope you guys like it. Please let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Armant is at ease in the Emerald Graves. With a small squad she clears out the deserters, calling themselves the Freemen of the Dales, and occupies their fort. It’s cool and refreshing under the near-impenetrable canopy, a welcome change of pace from the swamps in southern Ferelden and the rasping heat of western Orlais. It takes nearly a month to intercept the last caravan smuggling red lyrium into the area, and they track its origin to Sahrnia. She leaves half her scouts on the borders of Emprise du Lion to perform reconnaissance. Their carrier bird delivers a message to Skyhold a day before she arrives, informing of a quarry where Red Templars are seen day and night driving slaves to their deaths in the ice and snow.

Plans are quickly made to storm the region. She’s allowed three and a half blessed weeks to rest her tired feet. In the meantime, the keep’s tailors are busy outfitting her for the weather.

Between having meals with visiting dignitaries and overseeing the crafting of special weapons and armor, she goes to visit Cullen. He’s been indisposed, helping to organize troops and reroute them from Haven, through dangerous mountain passes, and into Sahrnia where their experience with the cold will aid the rest of the forces in sacking Samson’s work camp. She knows the strain he’s under and for the first three days after she’s returned to the hold, she gives him space, even excuses him early from lengthy meetings at the war table. He gives a grateful look but he brushes past her with less than warm regards, looking pinched and aching. Armant and Cassandra trade knowing looks but the Seeker confers her confidences in the Commander at every turn. He’s taken to an ill mood, it seems, and both have no doubts as to its cause.

When he snubs her runner’s request to meet in the garden for chess, her patience runs thin. She falls on the sword of her own fondness, though, remembering his sweet smiles in favor of his recent scowling. Armant turns to the kitchen and spends a few hours improvising on a spice cake, inspired by qunari flavors but Orlesian in flair and appearance. It bakes in an ornate mold and comes out in the shape of a bejeweled crown, densely packed with nuts and dried fruit. She prepares tea and takes it all to his office, hoping to draw on memories of a time when they watched the sun rise over the mountains, side by side.

She hears him shouting in anger, and something hard and wooden crashes into the door just as she reaches for the handle. As she peers around the gap there's a case on the floor and a bottle of lyrium clinking over the pavers. He's gotten the case down off the shelf without her consent. That irks her, and she scowls at him.

"Has the door done something to incur your wrath?"

He gasps, rushing to turn about. "Maker’s breath! I didn't hear you enter, I-forgive me."

"Don't apologize.” She opens the door fully and occupies the space, blocking the light and casting a long shadow across his office. “May I come in?"

"Please...I beg of you to leave me be," he says, and his voice is ragged. “This is not a good time.”

She hesitates, inhales to steel herself, and then lets it out. “It is never a good time to suffer alone, Commander.”

Armant’s boot gently knocks into the bottle of lyrium, sends it rolling out of her way. She sets the simple tea service on Cullen’s desk. A plate with the cake is balanced there, heavy and shining, dripping with glaze. Cullen looks flustered at the intrusion, looking first at the offering and then at the Inquisitor’s face. She pours tea for them both, and she keeps her eyes on her work, letting Cullen steep in her obvious disappointment. Neither mentions his lyrium case, how it lies cracked on the floor instead of safely out of reach on top of the bookshelf.

She slides his tea towards him. He comes around to the front of his desk and nearly loses his footing, grabs the edge. Armant reaches out to steady him and he pulls away, but he still looks woozy.

“I never meant for this to interfere,” he says, weary and casting his gaze at the wall which cannot pity him.

“I know.” Armant also knows the tea will help, it’s muddled with elfroot and thistle and blackberry, and a dash of valerian root to calm the nerves. “I wish you had come to me, Cullen.”

He walks away, less stumbling, but still trembling. “Your kindness is wasted on me. I deserve this.”

“How can you say that?”

“You asked about Ferelden’s Circle.” He faces away but she can see how his hands clench, and she hears the leather crinkling under his grip. “It was taken over by a demonic infestation. The whole tower fell to abominations!”

Armant doesn’t speak, lets their tea cool down and holds her hands behind her back. She listens, watches him pace, shaking and frothing.

“I was in a company of seven men when it happened. We were tortured for days at the hands of demons." He grits his teeth, reaches the end of his office and turns around to stalk back the other way. "They never made it, they swallowed their own tongues, left me behind with just their rot to remember them by. How can you be the same person after witnessing that?”

Her heart throbs high in her throat. She’s seen the spoils of war, the dead faces of people you spoke to at breakfast lying in the dirt, never to speak again.

“Whatever was left, I slaughtered. Mages, apprentices, templars under demonic thrall. It was a bloodbath." He wipes his face and laughs cruelly, a short staccato of stabs that makes Armant’s hackles stand on end. "But somehow after all that I still wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall because I woke up screaming in my bunk one too many times. My Knight-Commander could hardly stand to look at me.”

He's never shown this side, never let his guard down enough. She feels grateful to be allowed into this place where Cullen is wounded and afraid, but he hardly notices her, never so much as glances at how her heart breaks for him like forgotten crockery, like bone china toppling to the floor in a panic to escape a burning room.

“I worked hard in the Gallows. I tried to be fair, but after Kinloch Hold...I knew what could happen when mages were given too much freedom. Meredith was severe but I trusted her because I saw how blood magic and desperation had taken hold of the entire Circle, the whole damn city. You know what happened there.”

Armant had been in Ostwick when the Kirkwall Chantry had taken half of Hightown with it in a terrible explosion. She remembers the sky, the blood-red moon hanging in the sky like a drop of blood. The manifesto of Mage Rights had spread far by that time, and it was common knowledge that apostates who dared to enter Kirkwall’s city limits were flirting with the Rite of Tranquility. She knows no one is truly at fault for what transpired at Kirkwall. It took the whole city to tear itself apart, and from what she’s heard from her advisors, it’s taken the entire city to rebuild itself, too, because the people there love it, despite all its catastrophe.

“Yet again, innocent people died, and I could hardly see any of it because of that.” He jabs his finger towards the lyrium case. “And for months afterward I had no qualms about continuing to nurse that habit like an old wound.”

He is bitter and just the sight of his lyrium bottle lying on the ground fuels his rage.

“I thought this would be better--that I would regain some control over my life. But...these nightmares won’t leave me! How many lives depend on my success?” He swings around and clutches his head, and for a swift moment Armant nearly fears for him to harm himself, but he stops short of yanking his hair out. “I swore myself to this cause. I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry. I should be taking it!”

He takes his anger out on the bookshelf. The books rattle and a number of bricabrac and loose papers fall to the floor as his elbow, the hard edge of his gauntlet, slams into the wood, leaving a gouge knocked out of it.

His voice is a whisper, then, and he sinks into his arm, hides his face. “I should be taking it.”

She’s not afraid of him. She doesn’t reach for him or try to quell his anguish. “But is that what you really want?”

“No.” He gulps hard and looks up at her, finally. His eyes are red-rimmed and so, so tired. “But...these mistakes have always haunted me. The lyrium took them away, with all my pain. Without it, I’m defenseless. If this gets worse...if I cannot endure it...I...” He deflates, and with a few more moments to process, he realizes the state of his office, shards of wood from his lyrium case on the floor at her feet. “I’ve made such a mess. I’m so sorry.”

He tries to press past her, to pick up after the whirlwind of his fury, but she blocks his way. She puts her hand on his breastplate.

“You can do this.” She holds her hand out to show him his chair, his cup of tea, and a slice of cake. She gives him a gentle look and hunches down so that she can speak softly to him. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Cullen’s brow knits, and his eyes prickle, his lips screwing up into a frown that wavers until he lets out a small gasp, and a tear rolls down his cheek. “You...are certain that you wish to remain friends after how monstrously I’ve behaved?”

“You are no burden whatsoever.” She ushers him to his seat. “Sit down with me like we used to at Haven. I’ve missed you so much, Cullen.”

She lets him sniffle into his cake and pats his shoulder, but the hard pauldron doesn’t convey the touch she wants it to, so she lets her fingers glide to the base of his neck. There is no pretense, only the touch that matters. She presses into him so that he feels her, not a glancing or a teasing thing, not a hard squeeze or an alarming slap. Just a firm hand, a reminder. She pushes meaning into it, leans down and moves her other hand down his arm, to his wrist. She takes his hand in hers, fingers entwined, and lifts it to her lips.

He seizes up, and she worries the idea is too forward, but he relaxes by a few degrees.

The kiss means nothing more than a promise. “Next time, call for me.”

When she releases, she goes to pick up his case, puts the lyrium back inside, and sets it on top of the bookcase once more. He eats gingerly at first and then picks up momentum, finishing two slices of cake before she can manage to eat her own. A passing guard comes round and Cullen orders another chair for the Inquisitor. She doesn’t leave his side until he’s just shy of nodding off. She regrets leaving him to sleep upright, but the ladder up to the loft is too unsteady, and he is exhausted. The next day he complains of a stiff neck, but his eyes are brighter.

They no longer play chess because they can’t spare the time, but they take to drinking tea again. Armant drags him down into the garden where they sit in the pergola for an hour or two whenever they can spare it, taking in the sweet smell of her flowers and sipping homemade tinctures to soothe their stress. She brings her knitting and teaches Cullen a basic stitch to keep his hands busy. A thick set of needles end up in his office along with a bag of mixed odds and ends of yarn. When he has a bad day, he calls for her, and she knows that the agony of asking for help is probably worse for him than the terrorizing throb, the screaming needful rasp, like claws on stone, of withdrawals. She supplies him with more tea than he can drink, and cakes, and cool wet cloths, and the strong, supple warmth of her hands.

When nearly four weeks have passed, she stands ready to march into the snowbanks of Sahrnia and Cullen presents her with a bulky gift, wrapped in butcher paper and twine. He bids her farewell and asks that she open it on the road. Bold colors clash, several strings of yarn gathered into one thick strand and knitted up into a chunky scarf, quick work thanks to the oversized learner's needles she’d given him. She wears it with pride, tucks the tails into her breastplate to keep it safe. It’s a little warmer when the snow and wind bite at her cheeks on the frozen lake where a rift splits open to pour out demons. Another month, and they rout the red templars from the area entirely, and it only takes so long because of the sheer amount of red lyrium in the area making everyone sick and delirious. Spires of it jut out of the ground, and Armant wants to bury it all, scrap the place and strike it from the map. They stake claim to Suledin Keep and ensure merchants set up shop to keep the economy from drying up entirely after collapsing the quarry in on itself.

The Commander is standing on the battlements when she arrives back at Skyhold. She can make him out as they cross the bridge on horseback and goes up to meet him. He arrives midway and his smile is infectious. She thinks he might hug her, but he refrains, takes a breath and calls her “Inquisitor Armant.”

“It’s good to see you. I heard the reports,” he says. He pulls her into his office and there’s already tea and biscuits waiting.

“The Emprise was...it was not what I expected,” she says, thinking of how close they are to Samson now, and trying not to mention his name, because she’s certain Cullen knows already what the man has done in the name of redemption. “But it’s better now. And you seem well.”

“I am well, thanks to you.” He pours tea and he knows not to pressure her with sugar or cream. Normally he doesn’t bother with frivolous things like sweetened tea, but this time he indulges, pours himself a rich, sweet brew and puts two biscuits on their saucers each. “Without lyrium I finally feel alive. Food tastes better. It feels good to wake up in the morning instead of dreadful. I even find...um...certain things more beautiful than before.”

He’s blushing. He looks quickly away when her eyes find his.

Armant feels a tightening low in her belly. When Cullen expressed his disinterest before, she’d let it die, didn’t mean to bring it up ever again. She’s invested herself in his companionship, in the soft affection shared between friends. Any thoughts she has about exploring more than that have been relinquished to late night explorations of her own hands, of daydreams on a long journey to stave off the mindless drudgery of marching. She tries not to read into his words and lets the conversation die.

They drink their tea and the hour wanes. He shows Armant the knitting he’s completed, working now on socks, an endeavor she never taught him. He admits to ordering a book of patterns from one of the merchants, has surpassed even her own interest in textiles and bought fine skeins of good quality yarn to work with. He’s quite good at it, and he’s proud of himself, explains how the craft has gotten easier now that his hands shake less, his headaches quelled by a pinch of elfroot instead of a full day of bed rest, as they used to. She’s preparing to leave, drawing up from her chair, when he stops her.

“You...asked before...if our relationship could ever be more.”

Her ears reflexively perk, and she tries to keep them from signalling the girlish excitement his words have invoked. “I remember.” She pauses and watches his lips form a little smile. “Are you... _looking_ for something, Commander?”

“I think I am, yes.” His nervous grin fades from boyish enthusiasm to an old man’s tiresome frown. “The things that happened to me at Kinloch Hold, I…I don’t even know if I’m capable of… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to perform. That’s why I wanted to ask you…”

“Do you even know what you’re asking? Can we dispense with pleasantries and speak plainly?”

“I care,” he says. “I care beyond the bounds of propriety. I think about you constantly. Your lips, your eyes, the way you look at me...I come undone.”

Armant can sense, just below the aroma of their tea, the cookies, candles burning, and the smell of his sweat, there’s a suggestion of arousal, of his pheromones. In qunari the smell can be overpowering, but for a human, it’s subtle, sweet and earthy. She has to hunt the air to find it but it’s there. She’s never smelled it on him before, and it gave credibility to his concerns, before, but now...once she finds it, it sticks in her, a shadowed knife. She gulps, and her throat is a little dry.

“The feeling is mutual, Commander.” She slides back into her chair and crosses her legs, and the press of her thighs together fans the flame resting inside. “What do you wish to do about it?”

He gets up, and the legs of his chair creak over the floor. Around the desk, he comes to her side, closes the distance very slowly. “I want…”

Her lips part, and Cullen kneels. He looks like a virtuous knight, a storybook picture, something she’d never dreamt of or even imagined before leaving the Qun. It’s oddly endearing, how small he is in comparison to the natural shape and size of her, but he is also pale like lightning, strong and splitting the world in two, and it’s the difference that makes her heart race, that makes her soul reach out to twine itself with his.

“Andraste preserve me, I don’t know how to do this,” he sighs, looking desperate. “But I want to be with you. Whatever’s left of me...it’s yours.”

Armant reaches for his cheek and he does not wince, only closes his eyes and moves his hand to cover hers, a little smaller, so that he can lean into her cool, soft skin. “When you're ready, come to my quarters."

It takes a number of days, and she lets them pass without too much unwarranted consideration. She keeps busy with her own responsibilities, speaking at length with each of her companions, ensuring their needs for arms and armor are met, and following up on their overdue requests. She organizes relief efforts for those still suffering in Ferelden and Orlais with Josephine, answers copious questions and even more prodding by Dagna in the undercroft, dodges books flying at her head when Dorian’s patience runs thin with southern academia, and mediates an argument between Varric and Solas about Cole. Sera is the only one who gives a second thought about what she might need, shoves a shabby sewing tin full of cookies resembling hardtack more than anything else into her hands when she comes to visit the girl’s padded loft in the Herald’s Rest.

She’s carrying the cookies up to her bedroom when she hears the door from the great hall open and closing again behind her. She stops on the stairs and peers down at Cullen when he looks up to see her waiting on the landing.

“Oh,” she says.

“I hope I’m not intruding.”

Armant assures him he’s never been a burden and welcomes him up into her rooms. She pulls open the curtains to let in the fading light of sunset and puts the cookies on her desk. Cullen stands near the balcony and looks out over the vista it provides, serene and with a hint of a smile on his lips. He seems surprisingly relaxed, but there’s a tinge of red, a halo of nervous excitement all around him. Armant removes her overcoat and boots, sitting on the bench at the foot of her oversized bed.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she tells him. “I have some spiced blackberry wine and some very unique cookies to share with you this evening, if you’ve still an appetite.”

“I do,” he agrees, and it is a rake’s voice that graces her ears, “but perhaps not for wine.”

“I see.”

She undresses while she ponders how to proceed. It’s not as though she hasn’t spent many evenings thinking of this moment, but a variety of things suddenly weigh on her mind.

As a tamassran she’s been with elves and humans and other kossith, and so there’s little confusion over what lies below his trousers. She’s been with those who struggled with physical intimacy, those with dysfunctions or impairments or disabilities, and those things too are of no concern. Cullen comes to her with nothing more than willingness and his genuine affection, and that too is no novelty. But he does come to her as a figure of some authority. On the record, she leads the Inquisition, but only insofar as a blade might slay an opponent. Without the arm and the body and the mind behind the blade, no matter the edge, the weapon is useless. Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, they are the ones who truly run the organization, and by sleeping with him, she wonders if she’s crossing a line she hadn’t more carefully inspected until now.

It’s of no concern in qunari culture who you sleep with or why, but not so for humans.

He watches her. “Is everything all right?” he asks.

“I was only considering what others might say or do if they find out you and I have pursued a relationship,” she says. “Are you aware that this may have repercussions? And are you willing to continue in spite of that?”

He steps forward. “Of course I am.”

“Others may believe you receive special treatment from me,” she says.

Cullen actually smirks. “Well, I do, for one. Who else do you bring tea and cookies to when they have a bad day?”

Armant supposes he is right, and she smiles back at him. “Granted, you are my friend, but this new dimension of our relationship…”

Cullen shakes his head, he won’t hear it. “I care for you. The world may be ending. I do not wish to waste any more time. Not on half measures, not on what other people might think, not even on what mistakes I might make.”

Relief comes with his resolution. “Good. I’m so glad to hear it.” She finishes removing her doublet and sets it aside, revealing her undershirt, which bares her arms. “Do you have any special requests of me, before we begin?”

He makes an uncertain sound, drags his eyes with some difficulty away from the muscularity of her frame. “S-sorry? Special requests?”

“We must discuss how things are going to proceed. The terms.”

“I, um,” he reaches up to rub at his neck, either because he’s tense or because it’s become an empty habit, “was rather hoping things could proceed...naturally.”

“They will. But first: you told me before that lyrium had made it impossible to become aroused?”

He looks nervous now, like he’s about to be tested, or worse, punished or humiliated. “It did, yes.”

“And is that still the case?”

“Um, not exactly. I have been able to- I mean- I have felt arousal, yes.” He clears his throat. “But, um, I have difficulty...”

“Achieving erection?”

He covers his eyes with his hand, pinches either side of his temples. “Sustaining it, rather. Andraste preserve me.”

Armant gets up and approaches him. She is overjoyed to hear that despite his years of addiction, and the very real effects of lyrium dependency, that he’s feeling again, and wanting to feel. Her own arousal is present in the form of dampness between her legs and a twinge inside she hopes to sate with the Commander later on. She takes his other hand and squeezes it. She takes him with her to sit on the couch, and she faces him, and the intensity of his being in her quarters ratchets down from a dancing flame to a warm ember. The warmth is pleasant either way. She needs this to be good, not just quick or intense, but actually good. They both need it.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she says. “I want to be intimate with you, very much, but I also want to help. Please let me help you, Cullen.”

“This is so unlike what I’d expected,” he says, and he looks defeated as his eyes dip into his lap where his hands are resting lightly, open. She can see how his skin has been scrubbed to try and smooth down his callouses. He’s taken efforts to be presentable, freshly washed, his breath sweet and minty, and she’s certain his armor shines more brightly today than yesterday. “I want this, but it feels like it should just happen. I was hoping tonight things would just,” he heaves a big sigh, ”be perfect.”

Armant shrugs. “I want that too. But we both know perfect doesn’t happen on accident. That’s why I wanted to talk first.”

He nods. “All right.”

“Is there any part you don’t want touched, or things you do not like?”

They talk a while and discuss many routes that the evening may take. Cullen expresses his discomfort at being scratched, at violent acts or possessiveness, of losing control. He does not care for being rough or inconsiderate. He likes kissing. That makes her smile and lick her lips, and his reaction is instantaneous, blushing more and adjusting in his seat. He likes cuddling. Armant asks if he enjoys serving others or only being served, and he chokes before he can answer. She makes it easier, asking if he’d rather be bathed, or do the bathing. His answer surprises her. They talk about what parts are fine to touch, what parts aren’t, and about what Cullen wants to do with her, to have done to himself, and how he’ll consider the night a success.

“I want to wake up in your bed tomorrow morning and spend the day blushing and smiling thinking about what we do tonight,” he says, and he is boyish again, grinning all toothy and looking restful and content, though he does fiddle with the tassle on the pillow he’s taken to holding in his lap. “Is that...is that foolish of me?”

“No.” Armant leans forward and brushes her fingers over the scar on his lip. “May I kiss you?”

He bridges the gap, and he bumps into her with the effort of catching up on how much time they’ve spent discussing the things they want to do to each other. She lets him in, his tongue gliding over hers, and feels his fingers moving to her neck. He pulls back and breathes deeply, and Armant’s throat is too tight to comment. He is a good kisser, if a bit sudden in his execution.

“That was nice,” he says, and their foreheads touch, sharing breath for a moment before kissing again, and before Cullen can push her back into the cushions, she breaks away.

“The only thing I ask,” she says, sucking her lip into her mouth because he’s left a taste of himself there, “is that you tell me to stop if at any time you feel unsafe or don’t like what’s happening.”

He agrees.

“A tamassran’s job is to know what their lover needs, and to give it to them,” she says. “Or to take it away, or to make them work for it. What is it you’d like for me to do tonight?”

Cullen gives it careful thought. “I think...you work very hard for this Inquisition. You do it thanklessly. I would like to serve you, Your Worship, however you like.”

“You would have me command you? Remind you what it is you’ve got in your hand?”

He is easy to laugh, now, the barriers down and the shame taken away. “If need be, by all means. I hope I am a better lover than that, at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments. I need to get back to work on my other big story since I finished some obligations, but hold tight, we're not done here yet.


	3. Chapter 3

“Would you help me undress?”

He flushes, but does not avert his gaze, which proves to Armant that he is willing. They stand and she allows him to remove the rest of her clothing, down to her bloomers and a bustier of qunari styling, strung together with a long length of soft, twisted cotton rope at the sides and tied in an elegant knot on the back. She has him put her things away and while he waits for his next order, Armant lets down her braid, her dark hair falling into loose waves down her back that feel wonderfully cold against her skin. She goes and sits at her vanity and looks at Cullen in the mirror.

“Take off your armor, please.”

He nods and does as she asks once more, twitching his eyes away from hers as if she is a little too bright to look at for very long. She turns on her stool and returns the favor of watching as he performs the ultimately very intimate ritual of unclasping and removing the interlocking pieces of his armor. Mantle first, then his sword belt, sash, and two layers of robes. Gauntlets, pauldrons, breastplate, gorget, sabatons; she names the pieces in her mind as they are piled neatly together on the floor by his feet, one by one. She gives a slight grin and an approving nod, encouraging him to remove his heavy leather arming clothes as well, stripping down to his breeches and a thin linen undershirt, just as she had. The undershirt is unlaced down to reveal much of his chest, which is lightly curled with fine hair, and blushing pink like his cheeks.

“Come here,” she says, beckoning him to her vanity.

When he arrives, she retrieves a pot of cream from the variety of potions in a muted array in front of the mirror. There are bottles and jars of many purposes there, and she identifies them by the faded labels on their lids. She opens the jar and sniffs it, then offers it up for him to smell too. It’s rich with luxurious oils and creams, perfumed slightly by jasmine flowers, a hint of rosemary, and an herb from far north, something she could only translate as “soaring honeyweed,” something she’d never seen in Ferelden or the Marches. It reminds her of home, in a way that defies the actual memories she has of the remarkably inhospitable Seheron, of the brutality and the unfairness of living in the middle of a war of attrition. Once this pot is empty, there will be no replacing it, but Vivienne is taking measures to have it replicated.

“Will you help me with this?”

“Y-yes,” he says, quickly taking the jar and then looking at her for guidance.

She ducks her head a little, pulls her thick hair over her shoulder and begins to brush it, one hundred strokes before bedtime. “It’s horn balm. A little bit goes a long way,” she warns, and closes her eyes when she first feels his touch.

His hands are careful. He is heavy-handed with most other tasks, thunking down on the war table or his desk, or gripping his sword pommel too tightly when Josephine’s diplomacy irked him but he knew better than to chide her in front of Leliana. But in this, he tends toward caution, and the lack of experience with such a thing that must seem either overtly foreign or overtly feminine, is obvious in how lightly he approaches the task. He is light, gentle in a way that betrays the stern look of focus.

The act is not intimate, but it is.

When she was a tamassran, her horns were a useful handhold for babies and children when she carried them on her shoulders, and lovers sometimes liked to pull them or stroke them or lock them with their own horns. They were a part of her body in much the same way her hair was a part of her body. There were public and private aspects to both. Back in the camps on Seheron she’d shared this activity with another tamassran partly out of necessity and partly out of ritual bonding. The tamassrans braided and wove hair into complicated knots, painted vitaar when no mirrors were available, and carefully maintained one another's horns. They knew the skills by rote because being a tamassran entailed a certain expectation of appearance. Besides hair and vitaar, horns were especially important and never overlooked. Even male tamassrans whose horns grew unwieldy and broad like the Iron Bull’s were expected to keep them neatly filed down and smooth.

In Par Vollen there was the ritual practice of carving intricate designs on their horns, but in Seheron such extravagance had been eschewed because war made it a necessity to spend more time in vigilance than in leisure, spending hours on detailed interpretations of the Qun depicted in geometric patterns. She missed it, but there were no tamassrans or even other female qunari here in the Inquisition to do her the honor. She basked, even so, in the tender explorations of Cullen’s fingers, remembering the communal tent heavy with the aroma of incense and the humming of work songs.

"They're not as rough as I thought they'd be," he says, gently removing her from the pathways of memory.

"I keep them groomed," she tells him. "If I didn't, they'd be as gnarled as tree bark. Do you like the smell of the balm?”

Cullen makes a little noise of assent. It hints at curiosity, at his worldview beginning to widen, perhaps. He massages the cream into the root of each horn where they emerge from her hairline, all the way up to their points.

“Can you...can you actually feel anything?”

“Of a sort,” she says. “They’re more sensitive nearer my skin, and on the underside near my scalp.”

He pays attention to those places. She feels his fingernails rasp over the sensitive tissue between horn and skin. He relaxes into the act, gets comfortable on the bench next to her. Her entire head absolutely tingles and she tries to focus on brushing to keep from going to putty in his hands. He doesn't know how good it feels. She stops him after a while, once his hands are dry, soft and perfumed equally by the balm as her horns are.

As rehearsed, she asks, "Would you like to help me bathe?"

His hesitation is there, but it’s a thrill in his eyes instead of fear. Neither stops him from answering, “Yes, I would."

"Go and fetch a bucket of water from the pump in the back room," she says. "I have a rune to warm it up. I’ll wait for you."

After improving fortifications and securing unstable brickwork, the next thing she requested from the dwarven engineers in their rank was running water from the ample amounts available running through the foundations. One of few advancements the Qun could bring to the south, indoor plumbing, but not much else. She liked humans and elves and dwarven cultures just as they were, if a bit messy. Like cooking, even slapdash recipes can produce astounding results when one is hungry enough.

He returns shortly, water sloshing over the rim of the bucket. She has him place it in the center of the room. Towels, a sponge, and the rune are already waiting on the vanity bench where she stands and waits for him on the stone floor. Armant directs him to drop the rune into the water along with a handful of scented salts, and after a moment, the water emanates heat but does not boil.

From where he crouches, he looks up at her and she looks down at him with a pleased quirk of her lips. The ties of her breastband and her breeches loosen and fall at her feet and still their eye contact does not waver. She passes down the sponge. His hand is tentative dipping it into the water.

There is no sound save for the dripping.

He bathes the chaste parts of her first: arms, neck, back, belly, legs. He wrings the sponge out each time it returns to the bucket for more water, and he devotes himself to washing her with the same sort of valorous attention that he uses in attending to the maintenance of his weapons. Once he sees her flesh as simply that, he doesn’t scowl so much, and his blush dims considerably. At least, until Armant grows weary of having her shoulders and neck addressed, and guides his hand to her breast. She can can sense his anticipation, the hint of excitement that rides alongside a cavernous worry that she might reject him. Even though he tries to bite it back, he is a man, and she can smell his sweat, knows that he wants her. The motions and the words are unfamiliar to him but she is happy to show him the way.

Her nipples are hard in the cool air and she shivers as he moves the sponge over them, the water sliding down the valley of her breasts, into her navel, and then lower. He finally looks down and follows the trail down to her pubic hair. He gasps when she takes hold of his wrist and pushes his hand into the crux of her thighs. She does not look away from his eyes that watch her legs part for him and his hand disappear between them. He washes her according to her gentle direction and then leaves the sponge in the bucket with trembling breath and beads of sweat on his brow.

The sleeves of his undershirt are damp at his elbows when he wraps her up and dries her off. She is close to his face and gives him a kiss that becomes deeper, and the towel falls away because he cannot keep his hands off of her. Armant feels his cock press into her hip as his hands trace over her lats and down her muscled back.

A whisper in his ear makes him stop, “Take off your clothes and lie on the bed. Face down, please.”

Once he is there, she is allowed to take her time in observing his body, as he has done with hers. His body is toned, limbs well turned and his back and arse equally so, as to be expected for a former templar. The distance from the battlefield and the improved appetite in recent times has done him some favors to round him out. He is muscled, yes, but those muscles hold onto his grief. Scars are but faint reminders of old scraps, nothing there suggests a life-threatening wound. The more painful scars are elsewhere.

From the side table she takes a glass flask in hand and informs Cullen that she’s going to straddle him. She sees his body tensing like a bowstring, bunching up, because he cannot see her without straining his neck. She tries to console his fears, but he admits that he is not afraid, instead quite happy to have her mount him, and he sputters at his word choice even though Armant does nothing to react to it.

She does note his excitement with keen interest, however, and as she sits upon his lower back, careful with her weight, she rubs soothing oil into his muscles, which relent and give up their tightness after a few minutes of coaxing.

“I should be the one doing this for you,” he mumbles, his voice dampened by how his face is deeply imbedded in a pillow.

“I’m not the one who needs it,” she says. “You’re being good and letting me do something that pleases me. Tell me more about the things that excite you.”

“I never quite thought about it before,” he laughs a little and then moans when she traverses over a new spot on his side, slipping around his ribs and then back up to his neck and hair.

“Tell me about a fantasy you have.”

He is quiet for a long while, and she retraces her steps over his back, digging thumbs into the grooves on either side of his spine and making him wince and then melt when she slides her palms back up to his nape. It inspires him.

“Strong women have always drawn my attention,” he admits. “I think I...find it thrilling to imagine being...taken...by such a woman.”

She pauses. “Yes?”

“I know it’s vile, but early in my withdrawals from lyrium I had dreams about you...defiling me. Taking me like an animal from behind.” He clams up, and the work she’s done to relax him nearly goes to waste as he tenses up again and shifts uncomfortably beneath her. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

His words have inspired a vexating ache. She is extremely wet, and she’s certain Cullen should notice it, but he says nothing, focused entirely on his own returning shame. He breathes in deeply when she leans down to drape herself over him, breasts pressing into his shoulder blades, smearing her front with the oil that hasn’t yet absorbed into his skin. He smells incredibly erotic with this mixture of balm and oil and sweat and arousal.

“Scoot over.”

He does, and she slips off of him, lies on her side and keeps her hand resting on his back so that he can feel where she is, because he can’t seem to look at her after what he’s said.

“I’m excited by that, too. I don’t find it vile at all, and it isn’t uncommon.”

He is quick to roll over and gape at her. His hair has fallen into loose waves, looking wily and youthful, almost. “It isn’t?”

Armant shakes her head and draws them together, wrapping her arms around his neck. His cock has gone soft, as she thought it might, but she’s content only to snuggle, legs hooking together, hands gliding over hot, oiled skin. They don’t kiss, even though she wants to, because she can tell he’s thinking about what he needs to say. His jaw works and his brows are drawn over his eyes, and his hand rests at the base of her spine, thumb rubbing little circles, the repetitive motion of a cleric deep in contemplation.

“The demons at Kinloch tempted me. They offered things that...I’d never want to admit I wanted.” His hands creep further up her back and he pulls her more securely against him.

Lust demons. The kind that do not peddle in fear or intimidation, but treachery and seduction. They reach inside, pulling up the roots of things men try to keep hidden, the parts they’re so desperate to control. Armant has some academic knowledge about them but only a little personal experience with demons outside of sealing rifts, but she knows quite a lot about the secrets people keep when it comes to their innermost desires.

"It’s perfectly normal," she reminds him. "It isn't even bad to act on your fantasies, so long as no one is harmed and everyone involved is in accord."

"Even if they go against the Chant?"

“The Chant has restrictions on sexuality?”

Cullen grouses, “Some interpretations certainly do.”

She draws him into a kiss that lands on his cheek. "Even so."

In the bedside drawer there is a phallus and a harness, along with other things that managed to make their way from Seheron to the Free Marches to Ferelden and now Orlais. This particular equipment she purchased in Val Royeaux quite some time ago. It is elegant and finely crafted, with soft lambskin straps and shining buckles. She's thrilled to give it use for the first time on the man she's come to adore. He warms to her affection and kisses her, open mouthed, and she grips him with her strong hands and makes him sigh and thrust his hips against her.

“Do you want to try it?”

He can only nod, but vehemently. He remains on his side and watches with interest while she fetches the implements. She shows him the phallus, how smooth it is, made of serault infused glass that warms pleasantly to the touch. He remarks on how realistic it is, and unabashedly takes it in hand, slides his fingers over it to experiment with its size and shape. Armant can’t help but smile softly at how he inspects it without care for showing his nerves. He’s more in awe than anything else.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen such a thing?”

“Yes,” he says, handing it back, looking like a scolded dog. “I’m not sure they have these in Ferelden.”

“I guarantee you they do.” She inserts the phallus into the opening of the harness and steps into it, pulls it snug. When she turns to appraise Cullen’s nervousness, she finds his cock is half hard again and he’s biting his lip. “You like what you see?”

“Maker, yes.”

She has him sit up on his knees while they continue to explore what makes the other feel good, laughing and kissing and gasping and generally carrying on until they’ve thoroughly mussed up the bedsheets. Armant’s carefully brushed hair is haphazardly braided to keep it out of the way, and Cullen finds he quite likes the way it feels when it brushes against him. She admires his narrow hips, the ligaments that attach in deep furrows, the way his belly trembles when she kisses him there. He only lets her address his cock and his testicles for a little while, and when his hardness wanes, they move on to other things, interested more in having her hands on his ass, and to be sure, massaging the rounded muscles makes her just as pleased. He cups her breasts and continues to be gentle until she assures him he can squeeze and pinch as much as he’d like, which earns her a nibble on the inner thigh. He gives her the proper adoration, even spending a while getting used to how the phallus feels, not only with his hands but with his mouth and tongue, and then she pushes him onto his back, asks permission to continue.

He lies back, kissed all over, and again the image draws to mind a mabari. Armant kneels between his legs.

“Shall we continue?”

“Sweet Andraste,” he beseeches, “please do.”

The warm oil serves to lubricate the phallus and then her fingers, and she rests her free hand on Cullen’s belly while she touches him first behind his cock and testicles and then reaches his anus. He twitches but assents for her to continue, and she spends a while letting him get familiar with the sensation of being touched there. When he comments on how it feels rather nice, she agrees with little fanfare, knowing how a simple man from Honnleath who served his entire adult life with the Chantry must have never thought about such a thing before. She presses harder and sinks in, eliciting a heady groan. The process of working him open takes a while but it is never a beleaguering thing. Two fingers, eventually, and then a third, and Cullen is amazed to find a part of himself that can feel so good, a part he hadn’t even known existed. Armant rubs the cluster of nerves inside him and he nearly comes, right then, just for the stimulation behind his cock.

She has him on his hands and knees, when he’s finally ready for her to take him.

The tip of her phallus meets his body, and she drags the underside of it along his hole, slick with oil. He pushes back into her, into her cock, and her hand on his hip steadies him so that she can line up.

“Are you ready?”

He gives her one last affirmative.

She pushes into him and the process is slow, but he gives way, and she continues equally slowly, despite him urging her to fuck him ruthlessly. She draws him up by his arms, back arching beautifully, and kisses his neck, breathes encouragements into his ear, thumbs his hardened nipples, and collapses with him into the bed where she means to make love to him, face to face. They move together until the heat and sweat and their mingled breath makes the room feel like a furnace. He reaches the point of orgasm but never allows himself to tumble over the edge. Armant doesn’t take it personally. He’s not ready. She takes a break to let him recover, to breathe through the intensity of his arousal when it pitches too fervently into distress.

He apologizes while she removes the harness.

“Not necessary,” she says, brushing his hair away from his brow, “but I appreciate the sentiment. You haven’t let me down yet, Commander. Shall we try again?”

“Not tonight.” He shakes his head and kisses her palms, which cup his cheeks thereafter. “Tell me about what excites you, Inquisitor Adaar.”

“Hm. The feel of a lover’s throbbing pulse under my hand,” she says, lying down again and pulling him close. “A lover whose trust I’ve earned. Service to those I love, in whatever form they require it.”  
  
“Those are all very...abstract.”

Armant licks her lips. “You have a suggestion?”

“I’m suggesting that I’d like to please you and I’d appreciate your guidance.”

She finds his hand, resting on her ribs, and moves it to her mouth, sucks his fingers wet, and then places them in the crux of her thighs, and he takes no more guidance, gliding easily down to the knuckle. He withdraws and puts his fingers in his own mouth, sucks them dry. Talented lips, those, proven from below while she sits astride his stubbled face.

They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs.

In the morning, Armant wakes to Cullen sleeping in the colorful stained glass sunlight on her very large bed, the sheets half kicked off in the nighttime. She’s long since lost the harness, which is slung on the floor nearby, and her muscles are only slightly sore, just enough to remind her of the good night they had. She’s proud of him.

This image of the Commander, delicate, his guard down, along with the compiled images from the last few weeks, presents something new, and it’s something she likes. He’s let himself be fragile with her, shown without reservation the worn and ragged pieces of himself left behind. There’s a particular qunari craft, practiced by artisans, repairing shattered pottery with ornamental metals, making the pieces more beautiful for having been broken. She sees the seams where she can fill him with gold.

When he wakes up, instead of suggesting they siege the day, he draws her back into the pillows and snuggles, warm and satisfied, until their growling stomachs rouse them, grumbling, to search for food. After a quick meal, they’re off to their own devices.

The next time he comes to her rooms, there is talk of qunari rope-binding and further explorations of trust. Armant sits Cullen at her vanity and shaves him bare with her straight razor to improve her comfort the next time he asks her to take a seat on his sturdy jaw. They work on enjoying the moment without the need for hunting down completion, and this time Cullen’s able to stay harder for longer, and Armant stuns him by swallowing his prick to the root. The hours they spend together are devoted to various comforts, to sweetened teas and tiny cakes and hearty meals, in bouts of strenuous fucking or in lazy evenings of stroking and petting, and with whispered promises and endearments. After reviewing a shipping manifest with an order of twisted cotton rope, a length of merely twenty feet, along with other tools and utilities, Armant reveals her own selection of dyed ropes. He is patient while she ties him with an intricate design, and she admires him in the light of the fireplace, bends him over her desk and scatters all her papers. Once it's through, the ropes leave soft pink marks on his pale skin. She promises to show him more of what she can do, whenever he'd like.

On one afternoon, she’s returned from the Hinterlands with a gift and meets him in his office. She presents him with an ornate collar.

“I thought it was fitting. I saw it at a shop in Redcliffe and I thought of you.”

“Me?” He balks, a rosy blush on his nose and ears, accepting it but looking uncertain. “It’s...very nice.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Am I to wear it? Like a dog? I’m not sure if I should feel degraded.”

Armant takes her usual seat on the edge of his desk. She has let her companions help in decorating the hold, with Josephine’s guidance. There are more than a few tapestries depicting mabari knocking around for inspiration, and a number of them are in this very office.

“Mabari are treasured in Ferelden,” she says. “They represent a royal temperament, loyalty, companionship, and bravery.”

He softens. “That’s true. Putting a dispelling torc on mages is also a humiliation tactic, in certain Circles. Some of them are fashioned after dog collars.”

Her throat tightens. Foolish. Saarebas wore collars, too. A grave mistake. “I didn’t know, Cullen, I’m so sorry.”

“You wouldn’t do something like this on purpose.” He flexes the leather, looking closely at the designs. “It’s very pretty.”

“If it’s truly humiliating, I won’t ask you to wear it. But the gesture was intended to be rather...affectionate.”

Cullen mulls it over, rubs a gloved thumb over the embossing of the leather, smooth and supple. His guard drops, and he unfastens the buckle. Armant’s heart swells in her chest until it feels it might burst.

“Help me with it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely not, but I want you to know that I trust you.”

He puts the collar to his neck and she moves behind him to cinch it against his skin and close it soundly. It bobs as he swallows, stiff and uncertain. She kisses him, and his arms tighten around her waist.

“Am I worthy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) Thank you for reading. I hope this satisfied.


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